Kuroshujin
by Howling Din
Summary: In which a human, sentenced to hang for murder, not only averts her predestined fate, but starts to embody an abstraction that stands to defy Heaven, Hell and all of their faithful and fearful humanities. Becoming a being whose ghostlike, mysterious reputation is sought after by a man of the law obsessed with it. This is the story of Kuroshujin; of the Black Master.
1. The Witness

He reached the end of a dimly lit hall. At the end of which was a reinforced door, guarded by two armed policemen. Beyond the door was somebody he had spent a half a year tracking down, whom had finally been taken into custody earlier that night.

He stopped near the door, and looked at one of the policemen, who was diligently standing at attention at his post. "Anything to report?" He asked him.

The policeman shook his head. "Nothing, inspector. The witness hasn't even peeped."

The witness was his only lead to finding his big fish. Now, finally, he had a significant lead on his man. It was his case, his investigation, so he came immediately upon hearing of the witness' apprehension. "Unlock the door."

The policeman went straight to it, picking out a key from a ring attached to his belt. He used it to turn the internal bolt within the door's metallic casing. The door swung open, into the room as the policeman pushed his way in.

The inspector followed, and went ahead of the policeman. The room was a modest sized box shape, with walls of stone and a wood ceiling. A pair of windows, barred and well above reach, let narrow beams of moonlight into the room. The only other sources of light were a pair of oil lamps mounted on opposite walls.

The witness was sitting in a chair, facing the only door. His hands were shackled behind the backrest. A table, in the center of the room, sat in front of him.

The inspector stopped in front of the table, across from the witness, whom did not look at him. His head was hung limply down. A thick mess of graying hair darkened his lowered face. The inspector turned to the policeman, "you can leave us."

The policeman went outside, shutting the door behind him.

Now alone with the witness, the inspector turned back to him. The witness remained unresponsive. A few seconds ticked by, seconds of silence and stillness. Then the inspector grabbed an empty chair across the table from the witness. He lifted it up, spun it around, and sat down on it, leaning his upper body on the backrest. He looked at the witness at eye level, waiting for him to do or say something.

The witness did. Seeing that they were alone, he lifted his head. His face was as bushy as his head, with an unkempt mess of facial hair. His eyes seemed tired. But aside from that, they denoted intelligence, and a guarded sense of the world. "You've been a gracious host, inspector."

The inspector dropped one of his arms, and grabbed a case from a pocket on his unbuttoned overcoat. He opened it, and brought it up to his mouth. "Six months, you know." He said as he gripped a roll of paper-thin cloth that was stuffed with tobacco with his mouth. He shut the case, placing it back in his pocket. "Six, months, of my life, spent tracking your ass down." He took a match out of the same pocket, and struck it on the tabletop. Once his makeshift cigar roll was lit, he dropped the matchstick on the stone floor to smolder away.

The witness huffed with laughter, showing his top teeth. "My heart's breaking for you."

The inspector inhaled his cigar, and then blew it across the small table, in the direction of the witness' face. "Let's get straight to business. You've been in custody for only a few hours. And if you tell me everything you know, about..." He became more focused, serious. "The one known as Jet-dh, it'll only be a few more hours." He spoke the name 'Jet-dh' as though speaking the word 'jet' with a heavy Spanish-like accent.

He tisked in reply. "And what are you going to do if I... give you the finger? I haven't got a criminal record, and you've got nothing on me."

The inspector made a crooked smile. "Gonna be a bitch, then? That's fine." He abruptly stood up, and began to pace as he took his cigar out of his mouth and held it between his fingers. As he held it to his side, its smoldering tip let out a gracefully intricate stream of smoke into the air. "I've got all night. You were a bitch to catch, you can be a bitch to squeeze too, it's only fair."

"You sound like a mobster, talking like that." The witness sniped.

The inspector made a slow, deep giggle. "When you do this kind of work for a long time, one of the many things you pick up, is..." He stopped again in front of the table, and leaned his free hand on it, peering down at the witness. "The Yard can do whatever the hell it wants, long as some things ain't done out of habit, or in excess."

The witness took a big, laggy inhale, then let it all out without any energy. It was an extremely heavy sigh.

"You, my friend," the inspector continued, "are my only lead to the one I need to find. My only lead to Jet-dh The one whose capture has only been the wildest dream of every lawman in London."

"You, have no idea what you're getting into. You think you're reaching for e gem, what you're truly groping for is a serpent, who will bite you, and poison you."

He took another hit from his cigar. "I don't fucking care." He said smoothly with an aloof tone as smoke poured generously out of his nose and mouth. "What your evaluation might be on this. All I'm interested in is your information."

The witness adjusted himself in the chair he was cuffed to before continuing. "Why did you take me in?"  
"Because you know more about this guy than anybody else."

"Still alive."

"What?"

"I know more about Jet-dh than anybody still alive."

"Yeah, of course. You can't question the dead."

The witness nodded at this. "Mm, a corpse isn't a loose end."

The inspector paused, then slowly formed a frown in thought as he affixed his gaze in the witness' general direction. "Are you saying, that the guy I'm looking for kills everybody with info on him?"

The witness didn't answer immediately. Delaying in pause his response. Outside, through the windows, the groaning sound of a large gate being opened could be heard. "I'd like to be unshackled, if that wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Why?" He frowned, suspicious at this request.

"The simple fact that it's terribly uncomfortable. You don't have to worry about my trying to escape."  
The inspector's frown deepened. He'd learned to be suspicious of things with no clear purpose. "How do I know you're not going to kill yourself?"

"If I were willing to do such a thing, I would have done it before I was captured."  
"How do I know you didn't try to?"  
"I had a gun. Check the evidence vault if you think I'm lying. Ending my own life would have been simple."

Without another word, the inspector went behind the witness' chair, then took out a key from his inside pocket. The key was a simple design, interchangeable with every other key, and every other lock, to and on every set of shackles used by Scotland Yard. He unlocked the witness' shackles. Then walked back to his own side of the table. There was no need to keep the shackles on. The witness was unarmed, and looked small enough that he could be easily overpowered if it came to that.

The first thing the witness did was stretch his arms forward, followed by rubbing his chafed wrists. "Alright, now, now we can talk to one another properly, like two dignified human beings."

He didn't mind the witness' petty preferences, as long as he got what he wanted. "You were talking about some additional charges of murder? On Jet-dh? It would explain the utter lack of info on him, but damn if killing someone just for knowing you isn't a little psycho."

The witness sobered, leering at him from within his thick bush of hair, with a pair of yellow eyes. "The reason I was hard to find, is the same reason I'm alive to tell, you, the story I'm about to tell."

The inspector sat back down in his chair, across from the witness. Finally, he was getting somewhere.

The witness maintained his icy gaze. "Since you found me first, I'll impart my information to you, simple as that. What do you wish to know?"

"Everything. Start from the beginning. I want every detail. Everything that might be remotely correlated with Jet-dh."

"Hm... that's taking you for a very long ride."  
The inspector spread his arms. "We have all night."

The witness leaned in, intent, focused. "This story, inspector, the story I am about to tell you, is one of darkness, of suffering. A tale of tragedy, and insanity. The one you seek is a monster, and also, a god." He began tapping the tabletop with the tips of his fingers. A rapid beat that set a distinct pace in its percussion. His gaze became even more intent. "It is not a fairy tale, nor, is it a documentary, a chronicle. It is a story. A story of a human being, and, of being a human. This is the story of a pure being, whose hands are stained with oceans of blood. What you are about to hear, is the story of Jet-dh, the Black Master."

The inspector finished his cigar, and snuffed what remained on the table, leaving it there. Then he took out his case of them, and lay it on the table. "Do continue."


	2. The Sufferer

Chapter 1, The Sufferer

It begins... in a church. Walls and columns of stone extended well above the heads, of all within. Stained glass windows, which cast colored light unto the floor. Columns of benches in which all attending could sit, could kneel.

It begins with a young woman, dressed all in black, sitting at one of these seats. Her name, was Olivia Venim.

Black was the theme of the attire of all other attendees. A casket, crafted of blackened wood with a shining finish, lay near the altar of the church. Indeed, the event was a funeral. The name of the deceased, was Edward Venim.

Olivia Venim did not speak throughout the entire duration of the funeral. The deceased's other relatives had many words to say. His wife, his other children, the children of his siblings.

But not Olivia.

There was a presence in the room. A strong presence, stronger than the body inside the casket, stronger than the clergy handling the funeral rites. That presence was hers.

Not a single person within the church looked directly at her. Not her relatives, not the clergy, not even attendees she'd never met. Nobody could, for if they did, their faces would transform into expressions it would be inappropriate to show at a funeral. Strong expressions, that even the most senseless-minded were capable of

Just as well, she had nothing to say. She looked at nobody in turn, she was detached, withdrawn into her own thoughts.

The funeral advanced, and the casket was brought outside, carried to the cemetery. The rest of the attendees followed, Olivia among them. She had taken notice of everybody else filing out of the church, and went along. As she did this, she did not speak, did not meet anybody's eyes with hers.

They gathered around the grave, and watched as the casket was lowered into the pit dug for it. Through this, she made no sound, and was indifferent to those around her.

When the burial was finished, a squad of policemen, who were watching from a distance, walked into the thick circle of attendees, in the direction of Olivia. They surrounded her, and one of them bound her hands with a pair of shackles.

She did not speak, did not resist arrest as they escorted her toward a prison wagon on the road. As her back was turned, walking away with the cops, the faces of every attendee looked at her. Their faces revealed with expressions of anger and revulsion.

They locked her in the prison wagon, and the driver boarded the outside seat, behind the horses and in front of the compartment; a glorified cage. The cart left the cemetery, heading in the direction of the city of London.

As the cart shrank in the distance, one of the funeral's attendees, with more courage than the rest, muttered a word under their breath as they looked at the cart.

"Murderer."

* * *

The inspector took his blunt out of his mouth, inside the dimply lit interrogation chamber. "What's this girl have to do with Jet-dh?"

"A great deal." The witness replied. "You said to start from the beginning. This is the beginning."

"The murder of Edward Venim? Really?"

"Oh?" The witness lifted his eyebrows. "You're familiar with that case?"

"Yeah, I am. His daughter Olivia was charged with the crime. She was found at the scene with the victim's blood on her hands. They let her attend his funeral before the trial because it was requested in his will that she be allowed do so, no matter the circumstances."

"Isn't it strange that the written will of one man was enough to postpone a murder trial?"

The inspector shook his head, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigar. "No, it ain't. It's common decency to respect the wishes of the dead or dying."

"Is that so? Well, I'll take your word for it."

The inspector frowned at this, but the frown was brief. There's be no point asking the witness about his queer choice of words. "Are the man I'm looking for, and Olivia the same person?"

"No, they're not." Said the Witness. "They are two very, very different people." His head was slowly nodding in short movements. "Can I continue with the story? You said we had time."

"Yeah, go right ahead."

* * *

The prison wagon stopped in front of a London courthouse. Olivia heard the driver climb off the driver's seat outside. His footsteps tapped on the stone road as he walked around to the back of the wagon. A key rattled in the lock of the door, and a very small amount of seconds later, the barred door swung open. "Come on out."

She complied, getting up off her bench in the cramped, enclosed cart and then climbing down the small couple of metal steps attached below the door.

The police walked her into the courthouse. Still, she said nothing, met nobody's face. She was silent throughout the trial. She spoke only once, when asked how she plead. To which she replied: "Innocent."

They took it as meaning not guilty. Evidence was then brought up. That pointed to her as the murderer of her father, Edward Venim. The murder weapon was a dining knife from the Venim household. It wasn't on her person, but it was reasoned that an outside killer would have brought his own weapon. She was the only suspect without an alibi as well. Her relatives, and the household servants all had somebody who testified that they were with them on the night of the murder.

But the biggest piece of evidence, the one that sealed the case in the eyes of everybody, was the victim's will. It stated that should he meet a premature demise, all of his worldly possessions would be left to his daughter Olivia, the defendant.

This established a clear motive, and for the crime of murder, Olivia Venim was sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.

Through all this, aside from pleading innocent, she said nothing. I didn't even remember what her voice sounded like.

* * *

"Wait a second." Said the inspector. "You were there?"

"I watched the whole thing, the funeral, the trial, and her execution."

"Why were you at all three of these things?"

"Because," said the witness. "They were the hours leading up to her death, or at least, they were supposed to be."

His brow furrowed. "What reason could there possibly be-"  
"This is where I enter the story. All will become clear soon enough, inspector."

* * *

Yes, indeed, I am in this story. I watched Olivia at the funeral, at her trial, and finally, atop the execution block.

I approached her, book in hand as they tightened the noose around her neck. And that's when it became something well outside my comfort zone.

* * *

"Hold on a minute." The inspector had his hands up. "Why were you there? What were you doing?"

"You see, inspector." The witness stated calmly. "I was there to reap her soul."

The inspector stared at him blankly, waiting for an explanation, or a punchline, something. There wasn't one.

"I am, or at least was, a grim reaper." The witness stated naturally, but also with a touch of dramatic flare, as he was aware, of saying something surprising.

The inspector cocked his head slightly. "You don't look like any grim reaper I've ever seen."

"Have you ever seen a grim reaper?"

"No... I haven't." He sized up the witness again: he was middle aged, with an unkempt bush of hair that had large areas of its otherwise light brown pigment taken by white. His face looked like he hadn't shaved in a year. "But I've seen plenty of hobos, and you look like one of those."

"My word!" The witness exclaimed, as he tussled his thick beard with an index finger. "It's not as though I was in hiding, and didn't want anybody recognizing me."

"Mm, my image of the grim reaper is a skeleton in a black robe."

"Oh, no." He shook his head while holding up a hand defensively. "We mostly look like normal people."

The inspector lifted an eyebrow. "Do I... need to fetch a mirror for you?"

The witness twitched, then switched, to a smile. "Why sure! Fetch me a mirror, and also some scissors, and a razor, and then I can look like a normal person too-do you see my point here?"

The inspector wanted the witness to be telling the truth. He seemed like it. He'd done a lot of interrogations and questioned a lot of people in his line of work, and had developed a sixth sense of when people were lying. The witness seemed to be sincere, so now he hoped he wasn't crazy.

There was nothing but to hear him out. He took another cigar out of the case on the table, left open. "Continue then."

* * *

That's when she looked straight at me. When she actually spoke, for real: "Finally, you have come."

This froze me in place. It was not something I had been prepared for. She was not yet dead, and yet she could see me. I was able to walk anonymously up to the platform, in all my previous reapings I was never detected by the living. But now...

"That's okay." She said to me. "You don't need to say anything."

I was shocked, but decided it would pass. She was about to be hung, seeing me wouldn't change that. At the moment of her death, I could do my job. Her seeing me would be a passing anomaly with no meaning and no continuity. I gripped my scythe, ready to reap her soul.

Her sentence was read out, and the lever was pulled. The floor gave beneath her feet, and the rope became taught as the noose stopped her fall at the neck.

It didn't break.

She hung on the noose, incapable of breath. Her body jerked and turned out of instinct. Her mouth opened, and her toungue took speaking motions, but air could not be pushed past her windpipe.

I readied my death scythe. 'Twould be moments, mere moments before she suffocated.

The audience, the executioner, they watched. Her sentence was to hang by the neck until dead, and if that required suffocation, rather than the quick death from breaking of the neck, then that was to be so.

But it happened, oh, it still happened.

'Twas, in that moment. I had the honor of meeting Jet-dh.

* * *

"Wait, so Olivia really is Jet-dh."

"Yes, indeed." Replied the witness.

"You said they weren't the same person."

"Indeed, if, in her life before this, if she were anything like the woman I encountered, she would have been sent to a looney bin!" He had lifted eyebrows and a tightened smile, as though on the verge of chuckling.

"All right," The inspector had his forearm rested on the table. "Nothing can explain this except-"

"You let me continue?"

He said nothing, but just nodded.

* * *

Markings, that was the first alarm bell of what was to happen. No, scratch that, the fact that she saw me, and spoke to me. But I was too stupid, too complacent.

The markings had appeared all over her body and face. I saw them, even through her dress, shoes and gloves. The markings bore resemblance to various symbolisms I'd learned in my training, but I had never seen those particular ones.

I was so naïve then... I should have run away, let her death happen anonymous to the powers above, as they would have, had she have died with no reaping of her soul. Even in the eyes of God, it would have been preferable to what happened.

The markings manifested, and produced a powerful psychological trigger in my mind. I don't remember clearly, it was like a blur, a drug-induced high. As she inched ever closer to death's precisely thin doorstep, I drew my blade and cut the rope keeping her feet from the ground. I remember, what I screamed hysterically as I did so:

"Get away from me!"

I have no doubt that it came from her death bringing her closer to my home domain. I didn't want that. More than anything, what was denoted to my subconscious by those marks was something I wanted as far away from me as possible.

I don't know if stopping her from dying blew my cover. I didn't know if any of the crowd saw me at that point. And it would be impossible to ascertain such.

Because I killed them all.

They were looking at the scene. It was impossible to know if they saw me alongside the scene. Their faces would all bear shock nonetheless. I knew that Olivia; that her sentence still stood, that this mob of people would serve as insurance that she would die. Die, regardless of my cutting her noose keeping her away from the world of the dead on the short term.

They meant to push her in my direction.

I was in a very entranced mindset. It wasn't until long after that I learned it was triggered by the markings on her skin. They were an elaborate rune, which tapped a very ancient magic from a time before God in Heaven brought order to the world.

I couldn't allow her to die, allow her unholy being to be sent to the sacred afterlife. It could not be brooked, could not be had nor taken nor accepted. Not by me, nor by they, nor by any who abide the mandate of God.

I brandished my death scythe in its fullest form. A single string, continuously braided in a thick cord. Laced along its length at even intervals was a sequence of kunai.

* * *

"What the hell is a kunai?"  
"Ah, put simply, it's a Japanese puddy knife."

"Puddy knife... like, for scooping mortar and stuff?"  
"Yes, indeed."

"Lemme get this straight." He formed an invisible box in his hands. "Your death scythe... was a household tool?"

"To be fair, they made lovely killing tools as well, when you sharpen the blade."

The inspector sighed. "You can ask an uneducated farmer, and he'll tell you his pitchfork is an effective weapon. But it really isn't."

The witness waggled his hand, in an effort to dismiss what was just said. "Irrelevant. I was one hell of a killer with my kunai. Controlled on my thickly woven string, they made short work of the two hundred or so people there."

"Everyone?"

"Every, last, one. Including Olivia's entire family."

He took a moment to register what was just said. He wasn't kidding. "Kids, too?"

He shook his head. "Olivia was the youngest, she had no younger siblings. Besides, do you really think they would bring children to an execution? This is the nineteenth century!"

"Yeah... point taken. What happened next?"

* * *

I made short work of every human there. They didn't even have time to scream. I knew my quick work bought me at least a few moments of anonymity from the rest of London.

So I turned to Olivia Venim. The one who caused this shitshow that brought me so much discomfort and unpleasantness.

But she was already out of the pit, and back on the platform. When my kunai had ripped through the crowd, she was calmly walking up to me. 'Twas an effect of my trance, which kept me from noticing.

Before I could do anything, her palm was in my face. And my eyes saw a new set of markings there, on the inside of her hand. An intricate set of markings formed vaguely into an eyeball. Seeing it stopped me solid.

"Do you understand, little death god?" I heard her say. "In the event you blow your cover, an automated contingency comes into effect; you, and your conscious cannot return home until the matter is brought to the attention of one of your administrators."

I didn't have time to contemplate how she knew that. All I saw was the eye on her palm, its entrancing, violating effect on my mind. In the cracks between her fingers, I could see the color changing. I was certain she had to be some kind of sorceress. But it was nothing like anything I was taught about in training.

The sky became red, I felt a warmth, as though the temperature jumped twenty degrees.

"They are blind to this. Not for long, but for long enough; you are isolated from the organization that directs you."

Long bolts of shining, silken cloth, colored black and crimson became visible out of the cracks of her fingers. They seemed to billow off her being.

The eye became even more entrancing. It didn't change, but I did, my mind did.

She removed the eye. Tore it away from me. "You belong to me, now."

I fell to my knees, my legs momentarily becoming weak. The air suddenly cooled. And the sky had normalized as well. I looked up at Olivia Venim.

She was wearing the same as during the funeral and her execution. A plain, black dress. She looked the part of an ordinary English lady.

But for the marks.

Only the skin on her face was visible, but the markings were there, clear and constant. An intricate network of symmetrical lines, which made her face look as though spawned from the circles of hell.

When I saw that face, the Dispatch Society, all of my loyalties to it, which I thought could not be challenged. It all became insignificant; secondary. It was as though my job as a reaper was all a fluffy, happy dream, and that I had for the first time woken up.

Woken up, to the devil standing over me, patiently waiting for my dream to end. The words, came, unfamiliar, and yet natural, from my mouth. "What is your command?"

Her reply was an explanation, not an order. "Your purpose was orchestrated before your kind came into being. This is your true calling. You are a being of darkness."

I had no rebuttal, it all rang true to my transformed mind. "Please, Olivia, tell me what you wish of me."

Her face became slightly tense, slightly upset under the hellish markings on her face. "Firstly, I am no longer Olivia Venim."

"Then what shall I call you?" I had no order to follow, now I didn't even know what to label my new master. More than anything, that made my new self feel helpless.

"My new name, is Jet-dh." She pronounced it as though saying 'jet' with a heavy accent, with the t being followed by a heavy, emphasized breath.

"Your command, Jet-dh?"

She looked around, at the diorama of dead bodies. Then she looked me in the eye as I got back on my feet. "Get me out of here. Take me far away. I don't care where, as long as it's safe."

With no delay, I grabbed her in my arms and fled. My powers as a death god were still very much mine, and I ran faster than any horse. We escaped the scene before anybody came along and noticed.

* * *

The inspector had his hands set symmetrically on the table as he took a slow, deep breath. "So you're saying that Jet-dh is a woman?"

"Mm hm."

He frowned at this. "But all the stories, all the theories-"

"When people don't know anything, they make assumptions. The stories you hear were made up by people whose knowledge of her is not only secondhand, but also minimal. They assume Jet-dh is a man, so as not to seem queer, to their peers." The witness began scratching his nose. "If somebody, of limited credibility, suggested to you that given the utter lack of real information on Jet-dh, that it's possible she might be a woman, would you have taken them seriously?"

"No, I suppose I wouldn't." He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed and long legs extended out under the table. The small flames produced by the two oil lamps danced in place, causing the shadows of the table and of the two men to dance as well. These colors were backdropped by the moonlight peering in from the impregnable windows. "Part of me doesn't want to take you seriously, now."

The witness shrugged. "Accepting the truth is definitely a job. Some do it easily, others have difficulty."

"Well, I'm gonna have plenty of time with you my friend."

"What makes you say that?"

The inspector smiled crookedly as he tipped his head forward. "You just confessed to the murder of every poor sod found dead at that execution. You're staying here at the Yard."

The witness spread his arms, "I was going to request that anyway. It's safe here."

"That's another thing," he got up, about to leave and retire for the night. "If you became Jet-dh's unquestioning lap dog, then why is it she's out to kill you?"  
"Why," his eyebrows lifted easily, "I thought the answer to that was obvious."

"Why would it be obvious?"

"I am no longer her unquestioning lap dog."


	3. The Instigation

The inspector headed to the witness' cell the following morning. He distinctly remembered the routine act of heading to the cell, as he caught a custodian exiting the cell with a chamber pot, at the same time as one of the two posted guards was relieved by the next in the rotating shift.

He reentered the cell, and the witness was still there, in his usual chair. A cot, and bucket of water were placed in the cell, as he was staying there for the foreseeable future. "I'm surprised to find you're still here." Said the inspector as he took his seat, one of the posted cops shutting the cell behind him.

"For what reason, and by what means, could I possibly not still be here?"

"Well..." The inspector trailed. "When we left off on your story, you said you killed an entire crowd in seconds. And then you escaped the police, on foot, with a woman in your arms."

"That is correct, inspector."

"So," he shifted a bit, changing the angle of his face in proportion to the witness'. "If you're capable of all that, you could escape the Yard easily."

"Indeed, if I were still capable of that."

"Still? Does that mean you can't anymore?"

The witness indicated himself. "The man before you has but the capabilities of an ordinary human."

"And why is that?"

The witness shrugged. "I lost my powers the minute Jet-dh learned of my betrayal. She apparently put a failsafe in place."

The inspector started smoking again. "That sounds awfully convenient. There's no way you can prove the more ridiculous bits of your story, then?"

The witness' face didn't change or shift. "That would be an issue, but for the man I'm telling this story to."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means, inspector, that you're the type to believe enough in a ghost story, to spend a half a year of your life searching out a mere lead. From that, I know you won't reject these facts outright. You'll at least consider them. And if you consider them, inspector." he leaned in, intent. "You'll find how realistically they match with the real world events which have indeed been proven."

"Example." The inspector asked.

"For example, it matches with the record that everybody found dead at Olivia's execution was killed with slashing wounds, all of them the same depth, implying the same type of blade. Plus not a single body was far from its seat, implying they were all killed rather quickly."

The inspector nodded at this, slowly absorbing it.

"You can check the Yard's case records if you don't believe me. They will support my claim, and my story."

"It's fine," he took the cigar out of his mouth to speak more seriously. "If you were feeding me a bunch of bull, it'd be a bunch of bull that didn't incriminate you for murder. But there's one little plothole I'd like cleared up."

"And what's that, inspector?"

"I went to the records archive before coming here this morning, and found Olivia's case file. It was closed, stating her body was found less than a day later. Olivia is dead."

The witness shook his head. "That body they found, belonged to a poor young woman named Charlotte Esper. I know this because I did that to her."

His face became a stone frown. "Why did you do that?"

"Because she was the exact same body size, and had the exact same dental records as Olivia Venim. And so when I charred her body to a crisp, they thought she was her. Or at least, they assumed, because every cop in London was searching for her, expecting to find her soon."

The inspector was stopped from inhaling his cigar. "You sick bastard..."

The witness shrugged. "There were young ladies at the execution as well. Olivia had a sister, you know. Only a few years older than her."

The inspector had to gather his nerves before continuing. "And what about the girl Charlotte? I haven't seen that case, but it's fair to guess her disappearance was investigated. Wouldn't somebody connect the dots?"

He nodded promptly. "Indeed, it was investigated, and they followed the evidence I left. Which led them to an illegal human chop shop, within which her remains would be untraceable, even if they actually were there."

"Good God... Did she.. did Jet-dh tell you to do that?"

"Allow me to continue the story, at my own pace, inspector."

* * *

The minute she was safely in the wilderness, she asked me to go back and cover her tracks, so nobody would search for her, ever again. She wanted to become anonymous. In addition to this, she told me to return with an inventory of various items when I was done in the city. She didn't care how I acquired them.

I asked if that was wise, if she was capable of protecting herself in my absence.

And she replied that she badly wanted to be alone for a while, that it would work out nicely that the things she would have me do would take time.

And so I did. Leaving her in the woods a hundred miles from the nearest human, I went back to London. I was no longer invisible to the living, but that wasn't an issue. I could walk the streets normally. In fact, reapers are very well-dressed, so everybody thought I was a gentleman of standing.

Nobody who saw me at the execution lived, so my identity was safe. I'm a rather dashing specimen when my hair is under control, you know.

_You didn't get any blood on you when you killed all those people?_

Not, a, drop, inspector. As Jet-dh predicted, covering her tracks did take a bit of time, even with my perfectly publicable profile. The first thing I did was go to a government office, to research Olivia's relatives and make sure I got all the closer ones at the execution.

_Did she say it was okay to kill her relatives?_

She didn't give a damn. And if she did, she would have said something, which she didn't. The census records told me that I did indeed get them all at the execution.

Then I proceeded to find a suitable proxy of Olivia for the police to find. I snuck into numerous dentist's offices and finally found Olivia's dental records. I nabbed the records of several other girls as well.

It took a while, but I finally found a young lady of roughly the same height as Olivia, and the exact same teeth.

_Then you kidnapped her, and burnt her alive?_

Tarish the thought, inspector. I was a reaper, not a demon. The young Charlotte died of cardiac arrest, caused by my hitting her in the right spot with the correct about of pressure to stop her heart. I then proceeded to roast the body and leave it at the docks for the police to find.

_She didn't suffer, then._

Not near as badly as being burnt alive, if that's what you mean.

Once that was all wrapped up, I headed back out to the wilderness, to Jet-dh, with all the effects she requested I return with.

_What were those?_

Soap, a hair comb, sets of clothing that included a black dress of a more gentile variety than the dress she had, as well as boots, and a large supply of flesh-colored makeup, all loaded onto a luxuriant carriage with a horse to pull it.

Before you ask, I didn't necessarily steal these things. They were procured from the Venim estate near the city. The owner of which was the late Edward Venim. She instructed me to acquire a carriage that looked gaudy and rich. That being the best way imaginable to travel incognito in Britain. It's the lower-class wagons and coaches the police feel safe in searching.

I returned to the wilderness hours later, carrying with me her new dress and boots, as well as a bar of soap, having left the carriage tethered just off the road. Once I reached the spot, I found her laying on a bed of moss.

Her eyes were shut, and there were tears in them.

_So Jet-dh has a hint of remor-_

Her lips, however, were smiling. They were tears of joy. And she was hugging her own form, slowly, methodically, deliberately wrapping her own arms around it and caressing it. It was as though she was... in love, with herself. Before revealing my presence, I heard her make mild moans and cooing.

She didn't acknowledge me physically, but she said words to my approaching: "When I am ready."

I knew exactly what she meant by that, and stayed out of sight until she was ready.

About... I would say, fourty minutes later, she came out of her space, and headed to a nearby spring. I followed her there and gave her the soap. I waited on her yet longer as she washed herself.

She finished cleaning, and stepped out of the spring, standing naked in the green and isolated wilderness.

I dried her, and then helped her into her new black dress, tying the bodice at her back as she spread her arms. It was a beautiful dress, far more elegant than her funeral garb, with folds alternating between flowing silk and intricately cut gossamer, gracefully touching its wide lower rim on the ground. It went all the way to the top of her neck, with skin-tight silk sleeves on the arms, the set compketed with equally raven black gloves.

Her boots were next. I placed them on her feet one at a time so she would not have to sit and get the ground's garbage on her exquisite dress. She waited patiently as I tied their laces properly.

Then, on her exposed face, I applied the flesh-colored makeup, which concealed the intricate web of black markings that covered every part of her flesh. I could still see them clear as day through the makeup, but I understood how a mortal wouldn't.

Then she asked for the comb. But I forgot it, having mistakenly left it at the carriage.

There was a pause, and then she walked off without a word, heading in the direction from which I came to her, her hair still ungroomed. She had forgiven me, and that gave me immense relief.

We walked to the carriage. It was off the road, in a large patch of ferns. I opened the door, and she climbed inside. Stopping at the step, she told me: "Head north."

I presented her with her hair comb, "As you wish, my queen." I closed the door behind her. Then I untethered the horse and got in the driver's seat. I got the carriage back onto the road, and headed north, as she instructed.

* * *

The inspector had a crooked eyebrow for a good part of the story. "Were you some kind of... sycophant?"

"If I had acted like a sycophant, inspector, she would have torn out my liver, and left me to suffer on the ground, right there, and not given a damn what happened to me after."

"Why the hell didn't you run for it? Why did you go back to her, and then of all things dress her and escort her to a carriage?"

"I couldn't run. That would have been like an immortal soul escaping from the bowls of Hell."

"What, did she mind-control you?"

He shook his head. "It was not mind control."

"Then what compelled you-"

He met his eyes with a hard suddenness. "Fear, inspector. I was afraid, terrified of her."

The inspector frowned with thought, "why?"

The witness shook his head. "Why does a pious man fear God? Or a sinner fear the Devil?"

"I couldn't say, but..." He leaned forward. "But I don't understand why you'd be afraid of that woman."

"It was a primal fear, inspector. Primal as hunger, thirst, breath, and the urge for mortals to mate. She had transformed into something, something a being like a reaper fears more than anything else in existence, a being I had no option but to obey. I cannot explain it any more than you can explain why you want to eat regularly."

"Well," the inspector huffed with a hint of laughter, exposing his teeth near the cigar. "Hunger's got an important part to play. If ya don't eat, you die."

The witness slammed the table and grinned with his top teeth. "That, is precisely correct, inspector. My binding to Jet-dh was just, like, hunger: An unexplainable instinct, but one on which my survival undoubtedly depended. It was later I learned that my fealty to her was what prevented any agent of Hell, Heaven, or the Dispatch Society from finding me. She kept me hidden from them."

The inspector placed a spent cigar on the wooden table, and then lit himself a fresh one.

The witness took a metal cup next to a large metal pitcher, and from it, he took a large gulp of water.

The inspector took a flask out, and drank from it. He exhaled after the swallow. Then he offered it to the witness, its cap still hanging off. "Want some rum poured in that?"

"I'll stick to my water, thank you."

"Water?" he rattled his head left and right. "I never touch the stuff. Fish fuck in it you know."

"No, actually," rebutted the witness. "Most fish don't mate like we do. The male fertilizes the eggs after they've already been laid. Sex was a survival tactic developed by land creatures who needed to lay eggs with hard shells."

"You... read that in a book somewhere?"

He smirked. "Us grim reapers are a pretty educated bunch."

"So what did you do, after heading north from London?"

"We headed straight to Edinburgh."

"Edinburgh?"

"Edinburgh. And the next part of our story occurs on the journey there."

* * *

It was a moonless night, and the horse only knew its way from following the scent trail of the thousand other horses that had traversed the same road.

To our left was a thick treeline, and to our right, a field of green, with fenced off cattle pastures not far from the road.

A man walked in front of the carriage, stopping in the middle of the road. The horse didn't see him, and I pulled the reins to stop it from trampling him.

The man on the road had a turban mask covering his hair and upper face. Several other men were nestled up in the trees, with rifles aimed at me and the horse. About twenty or so more were on the ground, concealed in the dark and foliage. An ordinary human would have no way of seeing them.

I was surprised to find that Jet-dh didn't ask why we stopped. Perhaps she was asleep.

I looked toward the man standing on the road. He was holding a torch. A six-shooter pistol was holstered on his belt, and a well-crafted saber hung off his other side. "I must ask that you make way, my good man." I said to him.

The man on the road drew his pistol. "I'm afraid I can't let ye pass 'til you pay the toll." He had a heavy Celtic accent.

"I'm not paying you shit." I replied. The highwayman's last sentence easily qualified as brash and rude behavior. A behavior which evaporated any modesty or politeness I had for him.

He cocked the hammer on his pistol. "Last chance, 'my good man.' You get off that seat, run off, and let me and the boys do as we please with the contents of this here carriage, or-"

My chain of kunai came down on him before he could finish the sentence. They would have ripped him to pieces, but for his noticing my drawing them and readying them in plain light of the carriage lamps. He drew his saber and blocked the brunt of the blow just in time. But the kunai were on a rope, and its length ahead of the saber swung down and buried into his back.

I withdrew the strand, tearing the buried blades out of his back, he let out a scream of pain and collapsed on the ground.

The riflemen in the trees had not the same reflexes as the man on the road, and I attacked them next before they could grasp the situation and fire their weapons. If they killed the horse it would greatly inconvenience my master. I withdrew my rope of kunai, and threw its mass in a manner that each individual knife split off from the main braid of strands. Each knife penetrated the throat of a rifleman in the trees, and they fell to the ground before even firing a shot.

It had been a few seconds, and I was aware that to a mortal, a few seconds was a very short time. Once I withdrew once again my strands of kunai, I leapt off the carriage, and slaughtered every bandit waiting in ambush within the woods.

_I can't say this scenario charges you with anything, that easily falls into self-defense._

Does it now, inspector?

_Yeah, the bandit ringleader had a gun aimed at you with lethal intent. Any court worth a damn would acquit you of charges for killing him._

I didn't kill the ringleader, inspector. When I came out of the woods, finished with my... business, I found he was clinging to life.

Not only that, but he had pushed himself up to a crawling position, and had his gun in hand. Blood dripped off his back in streams.

And his gun was aimed at Jet-dh, my master, who had come out of the carriage and was looking at him, her right hand resting on the side of the cab.

My furious deathblow on him was stopped only by Jet-dh's left hand, raised in my direction.

She took several steps toward the dying man. "You are not going to survive your wounds." She stated.

"And what the hell business is that of yours!" He shouted. His gun was shaking, and his breathing became strained as he lost more blood. I wanted to kill him, but Jet-dh had stated explicitly that my involvement was no longer required.

_All she did was raise a hand at you._

And that was an explicit statement. You see, nothing she ever said or did was mundane or meaningless, and so the things she did say and do became more meaningful, and more powerful than the most resonant words or earnest of gestures.

She walked toward the dying man, calm and composed in the face of the gun aimed at her by somebody with nothing to lose. "Have you made arrangements?" She continued saying to him.

"You mean... am I going to Heaven or Hell?" He said, still holding up the gun and keeping himself up with his other arm.

She said nothing.

He took her silent reply as affirmation. "Well, I'm pretty damn sure I'm going to hell, lady."

"I can offer you an alternative." She stated without any reaction or hint of irony. The marks on her flesh began appearing underneath from under her black dress and flesh-colored makeup.

He coughed. "What the hell are you saying? Are you a demon, come to take me to Hell? Or an angel, come to offer me redemption?" He shot the questions out sarcastically.

"No." She replied simply to both questions.

"What do you mean, then?" He lowered his gun. As his breathing became more calm, controlled. His eyes broadened, from hope of a sort that countless mortals become enthralled by: The hope of a better afterlife. This was not an ordinary person before him. He saw the runes on her flesh, and was taken by the same force as I in extreme, only in his case, it was much weaker.

But he felt it, same as I, an ordinary human. I was taken aback.

"Give your soul, not to God, nor the Devil, but to me. And you will continue to exist on this Earth."

"What... what will happen to me?"

"What is your answer?" She said slowly in reply to that. The markings became more vivid.

It was a foregone conclusion. I knew for a fact that mortals were terrified of the idea of Hell. "I accept." He said.

Jet-dh turned to me. "Reap his soul."

I obeyed, and buried my chain of blades into his back. They dug deep, and I slid them back out smoothly. The braided string rolled itself neatly back into my grasp as his Cinematic Record poured out of him.

I gathered these records, objective accounts of the man's entire past into a manageable package, as I was trained to do. I then offered it to Jet-dh.

"Throw it away." She told me. "I already have his soul."

I offered the cinematic record again. "But this is his soul."

"That part of a soul, is not my business."

That was plenty of reason for me. I tossed away the record.

She crouched down next to the body of the man I reaped the soul of, her black skirts slightly puffed up from a mild buildup of air.

I could not contain my curiosity. "What is to happen?"

She didn't reply, but placed a hand his head. Suddenly, black tendrils shot visibly through the gaping wound on his back from one end to the other, and his wounds regenerated in seconds.

She stood up straight, and then lifted her skirts to step back.

The man whose soul had been reaped began to move. He got back on his feet, and he breathed again.

"My regards, Reaper." Jet-dh said to him. "You are the first of your kind, in thousands of years, to be created outside the Dispatch Society.

"Exist again on this Earth..." He had the same Celtic accent as his living self. Then his eyes snapped to her in surprise and shock.

I knew, then, knew he was instilled with the same compelling terror as I. And from that, I knew he had become a reaper. The highwayman knelt before her, averting his eyes. "What do I call you, my Master?"

"Jet-dh."

"I am called-"

"Your old name is irrelevant, now. You are to be given a new name."

He accepted this. "What am I to be called?" He said briefly, terrified of the prospect of wasting a second of her time.

"You were the last to die, and it is thanks to your own prowess that you were not the first. Twenty others died before you. And so, your name shall be Twenty One."

Finished speaking to him, she calmly turned away, and went back inside the carriage. I opened the door for her. She stepped up on the metal mid-step. "Continue heading north."

"Yes, my queen." I answered, and then closed the door behind her. Then I turned to Twenty One. "You look like crap, I said in remark to his torn, bloodstained clothing. "There's a trunk strapped to the back of the carriage, get changed."

Twenty One recovered his saber and pistol, holstering them in their proper places. He then took off his belt with them on it and went to the back of the carriage where the trunk was. No sass, no remark, he saw the sense behind my imperative and deferred to it. There was no sense of antagonism between us now; we were united, in our absolute allegiance to her.

* * *

The inspector was almost through his second cigar. "So she could turn people into reapers?"

"Only if they willingly surrendered their souls, and then were killed with a harvesting tool, such as a death scythe. Which doesn't happen often."

"And this guy became like you?"

"Obedient to a fault, and capable of extreme superhuman feats. The only difference was that he wasn't nearsighted like me."

"You were nearsighted?"

"All reapers are, inspector. We can't see a damn thing without our glasses. My eyesight got better after I lost my powers, but before that, I never took off my spectacles."

"But this... highwayman Jet-dh turned into a reaper wasn't?"

The witness took another drink of water. "Nope, he was different. I later learned that it was only the reapers created within the Dispatch Society who were nearsighted."

"Why's that?"

The witness huffed. "You're accepting the length of this questioning with an awful lot of patience, inspector."

The inspector grinned. "It's an interesting story, especially if it's true."

"Fair enough. It's because the Dispatch Society was formed from reapers given a purpose in God's plan. But in order to stop our old instincts from arising and making us question our role, our spiritual awareness was stripped down to nothing. Our physical nearsightedness is a byproduct of this."

"But the one made by Jet-dh hasn't been modified from the original blueprint."

He nodded, "precisely correct, inspector. Jet-dh was a being wiped from all records, wiped from existence when the cosmos was war and chaos, and remembered only by those whose age allows for firsthand memory of them."

"So Jet-dh is really, really old?"

"No, very, very young. A fresh, newborn specimen of those beings that Olivia Venim had somehow transformed herself into."

"How does a human become something like that?"

"The human soul is given a land of opportunity when it leaves its mortal flesh, some end up as angels, or demons, or reapers. And those are just the beings that do things back here on Earth. But... Olivia was different in that respect."

"Different how?"

"Her physical body was still alive when she changed. I have no idea what that might imply, but it's completely different from any known case of afterlife beings."

"I wouldn't know anything about that stuff." The inspector stood up. "I'm gonna have me some lunch. Yours should come momentarily. I'll be back after."

"Enjoy your lunch, inspector." The witness called after as he exited the cell, locking the door behind.


End file.
